Blog: New wheels, old memories

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Long-awaited new transport for his service users has left Simon Daniels feeling nostalgic.

Most of us at some time have felt excited about the prospect of a new set of wheels. Whether it's  the rust sanctuary we'd set our hearts on as skint teenagers or a bright and shiny showroom special we convinced ourselves was too much of a bargain to pass up. Either way, the building excitement was difficult to bear.

For me it was 'flip flop' pink Florence, a Fiat 128 bequeathed by my mother when she decided to trade-up to a real car. I managed to free the button on the stereo which was super-glued to Radio 4, but the perma-fixed 'Cat's Get Constipation Too' poster filling half of the rear screen proved much too stubborn, acting as a handy girl-repellent for anyone brave enough to get in.

Unfortunately, Flo and I parted when my eyes and ears were bewitched by a Triumph Dolomite Sprint, resplendent in ivory cream and chrome coachwork. Buying from an auction is a little like speed dating. I never had enough time to inspect the bodywork or take her out for a spin before thrusting my hand skywards to close the deal at £45.

Had I examined her thoroughly I would have discovered her only Achilles' heel. As I gingerly backed her out of the auction hanger, I should have read the lake of oil under the engine as a bad sign. The car didn't actually leak oil, it exanguinated. Each time I decided to go for a burn I filled the rear seat with six cans of Castrol GTX. If I didn't, there would be no return journey.

But enough of my car-related ramblings. Yesterday I received news that the unit is finally getting an 8-seater car. This may seem a fairly unremarkable event for those establishments used to luxury limos to ferry residents around.

Up until April we had what can only be described as a modified builders van. The 12-seater turquoise Sherpa had more knocks and scrapes than a demolition derby. My own duelling scar was achieved when I miscalculated the height restrictions at our local Morrison's, shearing off the ventilation cap on the roof. We had thought of contacting the TV programme Pimp my Ride, but soon realised that 'Pimp my Van' wasn't quite the image they were looking for.

I liked the old beast, and relished throwing her into corners that would have wrong-footed lesser vans. The only serious ailment she suffered from was a type of post-50mph Parkinson's that meant the driver received both an upper body massage and blurred vision. Half of my colleagues refused to drive her simply because of the difficulty in finding a disabled parking space big enough. Bloody cowards!

From the residents point of view the car hasn't arrived soon enough. I am sick of making excuses about why we can't take them out. One of the wealthier service users even offered to buy us a new state-of-the-art runabout complete with DVD and sat-nav. The only thing that stopped us was Bob's CIA/car dealer contact who promised to deliver the vehicle once he had erased its previous identity and hosed out all the blood from the trunk.

The diary has already begun filling up with potential days out to numerous fun destinations. Personally, I will be happy if I can spend some valuable one-to-one time with my own three residents, trying to unpick the person from the condition. Happy days.